A/N: So I promised a smut (it's under construction, I swear), but then got attacked by plot bunnies, and... this happened. I'm sorry or you're welcome, it's up for you to decide.
Huge thanks to StargazerDaisy for her invaluable notes on newborns!


There are whispers on the streets of Os Alta of Oprichniki coming in the dead of the night, breaking down doors, and dragging people away. Of whoever is taken by the Black General's private guard is never being seen again.

Of course, these are just that—whispers, rumors; Olga has never known, or even heard of, anyone really disappearing. Still, when two stern-faced, charcoal-clad soldiers knock on her door well after nightfall on a cold, November day, just when she had gotten all of her children to bed, insisting she come with them, dread still fills her. They barely give her enough time to put on her cloak and share a tense goodbye with her husband ( Oh, will she even see him, see the children again?, she finds herself thinking), before she is led out of the house and is helped into a great, black carriage.

There are three other women already in there, all in their twenties or thirties, with healthy, full cheeks, clad in simple, but well-kept clothing—testaments of lives that are unremarkable, filled with work, but lacking serious hardships. There is one more thing that they share: the frightened, confused look in their eyes. Although they exchange no words, Olga knows all of them were taken from their homes without warning, reason, or explanation.

The carriage moves on, picking up another passenger—a woman of the same variety—, and yet they don't talk, merely daring to look at each other, to share looks of terror and confusion. One of them, the youngest of the bunch, even has her head bowed, deep in murmured prayer. Olga just looks out of the window as they pass from the poorer quarters of the city into the neighborhoods filled with the exquisite mansions of the nobility, frantically trying to figure out what she might have committed that drew the Darkling's attention.

She is a nobody, the lowly wife of a lowly servant. Her Igorek might work at the Little Palace, but he is just a cook, mostly confined to the kitchens. The most exciting thing that has ever happened to him there was that he once glimpsed the Sun Summoner from afar, not long after she had arrived at the capitol ( he said that she looked lovely and kind, and so young, and definitely, undeniably Shu ). He has never even stolen a single piece of silverware, that honest man of hers. And she is even less interesting than her husband. She runs her little household, raises her four children-the youngest, her little Pavel, born just that Spring-, and does a little washing and mending to add a few kopeks to their meagre coffers. True, Igorek brings home some gossip sometimes, and he likes to pass it on to her, and then she might tell it to the women at the market, but when has gossipping, the single spice in her life, become a criminal offense?

The carriage eventually rolls through the gates of the Little Palace, which makes the young one's prayers even louder; even Olga gasps, grabbing her necklace, and silently asking the Saints to spare her and her family.

They stop in front of a side entrance, where they are asked—not unkindly, she notes—to get out, then herded through some dimly lit corridors, most likely used by servants, up a set of stairs, into an opulent foyer with portraits on the walls. There they are lined up and told to wait by their escorts, who take their position by the door they have just come through, barring any foolish attempts at escaping.

A tense minute passes before they hear footsteps, and a tall man, who looks like he has never smiled in his life, appears. He is wearing a red kefta with intricate, embroidered patterns. Olga knows little of the Second Army, but she has some vague recollections of what their colors mean. The red is Corporalk i—either a Healer or a Heartrender, although Olga does not know how to tell those two classes apart.

She desperately wishes for a Healer; Heartrenders terrify her.

The man with the smileless face passes in front of their line slowly, carefully taking each of the women in, probably gauging them with his powers. He shakes his head at the one with the most generous breasts and hips (she does look a little pale, with dark circles under her eyes), and looks at the praying one with clear disdain.

"This and this," the Corporalki says at last when he finishes his inspection, nodding at the plump woman and young one, "can go home. The other three, follow me!" he instructs them in an emotionless tone.

He leads them, with one of the Oprichniki following, down the corridor, then up another staircase and then through another hallway into what looks like an antechamber with a few luxurious, comfortable-looking settees. There, they wait again, as the Corporalki disappears through a door on the other side of the room.

A moment later he returns with a figure clad in all black.

Olga's breath hitches.

She has never seen the Black General in person before. She has heard stories, of course, even firsthand—or at the very least secondhand—ones from her husband, and she knew not to expect the demonic creature some of the more ill-meaning rumors supposed him to be, but she is still taken aback.

The General looks… normal. Human. He is younger than what she's expected—but then again, most Grisha look younger than their years—, and he is handsome, with an elegantly sculpted face. It's only his dark eyes that seem otherworldly. And yet, there is something unsettling about his appearance—something frantic, fractured. His hair is in disarray, as if he ran his hands through it one too many times, he looks tired, and maybe even scared , but definitely worried.

Olga's cursed curiosity peaks at the sight of him.

The General acknowledges the women with a curt nod, but no words, then inspects them in the same throughout fashion his Corporalki did only minutes earlier.

His gaze eventually settles on Olga.

"Her?" he asks the Oprichnik , making Olga's whole body tense up.

"Olga Blinova, wife of Igor Blinov, employed as a cook in the kitchens. No complaints. The births of four children reported in the last eight years, the last some seven months ago."

The General turns his unnaturally dark gaze on her. "This last child—is it alive?"

Olga swallows. "Yes, my lord." She is vaguely aware that this is not the proper way to address him, but she is too upset to remember the right words. "He's—"

"Do you still nurse him?" he cuts in, not waiting to hear her whole answer.

She nods, more and more confused by the second.

"Good. Follow me," he tells her, before addressing the Corporalki . "The others can be taken home. Compensate them for their troubles."

Olga relaxes a little at his words—surely, if compensation is on the table, then she must be here for some service, whatever that might be, not to be punished—, and follows him with a lighter heart.

He leads her to a sitting room lavishly decorated with light colored furniture—everything is so fine, so grand, Olga doesn't even know where to look, what to take in. She is so distracted by the opulence surrounding her that she almost misses the one piece of furniture the General walks to straight away—a small bassinet in the middle of the room, painted white and decorated with gold leaf. But then he stops by it, and Olga watches, dumbfounded, as he leans down, his expression softening, and lifts, so gingerly, so tenderly, as if it was the most precious, most fragile thing in the world, a small babe from the bassinet.

Olga's lips form a perfect O in her surprise.

She has a very good idea who the child must be.

Rumors started early in the summer that the Sun Summoner was with child—rumors that her husband was eager to confirm by July. However, there were contradictory opinions on the paternity of the babe. Some said that the Sun Summoner's Otkazat'sya lover visited her on the night of the winter fete, and the child was the result of their tryst (some said the lover got away; others that the General killed him in a fit of either rage or jealousy). Another story went that the General forced himself on her, while others were sure they were madly in love, secretly married, and the child was the fruit of their wedding night. And then there was a fraction, zealous believers mostly, who said that Sankta Alina faced the Fold, realized she would not be powerful enough to destroy it alone, and begat a babe, another Sun Summoner, without the interference of a father, to help her conquer the Unsea.

Whatever was the story behind the child's conception, it has been, undoubtedly, born, and was there in the room with Olga.

The child—softly fussing now, expressing its discontent at being disturbed—held securely in his arms, the General steps up to Olga, his expression tense, unreadable as he looks at her. Olga, unsure what is expected of her, curtsies awkwardly—to him, to the child, to the unseen but intimately felt presence of the Sun Summoner, she is not sure. When she stands again, she trains her eyes on the collar of his tunic, too afraid to look him in the eyes or gaze directly at the baby.

"She needs to be fed," he says curtly after an overlong moment of silence, over the cries of the child, which are getting louder by the second. There is something in his voice that makes Olga look up at him, only to see the utter reluctance of parting with the infant clearly written on his face.

Olga blinks, the pieces slowly falling into place in her mind—a wet nurse; they needed a wet nurse, so they most likely rounded up all the women with connections to the Little Palace who had children recently. And the General chose her—to have the honor or bear the burden, she is not sure yet.

When another moment passes without the General showing any indication of wanting to hand over the child— what is he thinking? That she'll spoon feed the babe? —, Olga shakes herself, and, gathering up all of her courage, reaches for the infant. The General startles, as if awoken from a trance, then slowly hands her the baby, while softly murmuring careful, support her… , as if he knew better, as if she hasn't handled babies before, or raised four of her own. Once the babe is settled in her arms—giving out pitiful wails now—, Olga pointedly looks at the sofa behind the General. He follows her gaze, then nods, stepping aside to let her pass.

Once settled on the plush upholstery, Olga takes a good look at the child—she could scarcely be more than a couple hours old, her face still bearing a puffiness that speaks of the trauma of being born. But she is, undoubtedly, a beautiful child—maybe a little small, definitely smaller than her Pavel when he was born, but well-formed, with elegant, delicate features—some of them undoubtedly from the Shu heritage she shares with her mother—already shining through the chubbiness all newborns share. And when she opens her eyes from a moment, night-dark irises blink up at Olga, leaving absolutely no questions about the child's paternity.

Having satisfied her curiosity for the time being, Olga reaches for her collar to undo her blouse, but she stops mid-movement, feeling the uncomfortable pressure of a gaze on her. She looks up, and sees the General, standing barely two steps from her, hands behind his back, eyes trained on the child, hard and unyielding. Olga swallows, half-ready to tell him to stand down, but her protests are smothered before they could even take form.

"Go on," the General orders her, his tone leaving no room for argument.

So she gives in, letting out a low sigh as she unbuttons her blouse and the flap on her corset, freeing her breast and presenting it to the babe. She fusses a little at first, turning her tiny face away—Olga somehow just knows that the babe is aware that she is not her mother—, but then, following some gentle coaxing, the scent of the milk wins her over, and after a couple of false starts she latches on, suckling contentedly.

"What a clever girl you are," Olga coos, delighted by the child, by the way she nurses so well; feeding Pavel was a nightmare at first, he all but refused to properly latch on. And her firstborn, Anya, she did latch on, but it took her several tries to learn how to pace suckling and breathing. But this little Grisha child, she gets the hang of it in moments. Olga draws an adoring finger along the baby's arm, before daring to steal a glance at the General; he is still standing exactly where he was a minute ago, but now he wears a proud, indulgent smile on his face that is so much at odds with everything that is being whispered about him. Yet, it's enough for her to soften towards him. "It can take a while," she says almost brazenly, looking straight at the General, then glancing at the armchair opposite the sofa she is sitting on.

To her surprise, the General relents—he walks over to the chair, and, never taking his eyes from the babe, all but collapses in it, truly showing, for the first time, how exhausted he must be.

The great grandfather clock ticks away lazily in the corner as the child nurses and the General watches, and the strange intimacy of the scene somehow emboldens— makes her forget her place , Igorek would say—Olga.

"What's her name?" she asks.

The General blinks; his mask composure completely gone now, he looks absolutely taken by surprise by the fact that babies are supposed to have a name . His shoulders slumping forward, he runs his hands down his face in a broken gesture before he says, "She doesn't have one… yet." Then the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. "You may hear some… nicknames thrown around, but until further notice, you may address her as Miss Kirigan."

"Yes, moi soverenyi ," Olga says, finally having recalled his proper address, her half-smile mirroring his.

Her next question is riskier. "What about her mother?"

The General's face pales, his tired, subdued joy swiftly replaced by weariness and echoes of recent fears. For a moment, she is afraid that she has crossed an invisible line and that he won't answer her, maybe even has her thrown out, but then he speaks. "It was a… long, difficult labor," he says in a broken, defeated tone, which makes Olga wonder how close exactly he got to losing the mother of his child. "The Sun Summoner will be okay," he continues, dispelling any possible doubts about the identity of the mother ( like there was any ), "but it'll take her some time to recover. I did not want to disturb her rest until I absolutely had to."

Olga nods, falling silent, instinctively knowing that she has reached a limit; further questions will not be tolerated. So instead she turns her gaze on the babe, humming softly as she suckles on.

It takes the child a few more minutes to have her fill, going blissfully limp in Olga's arms as, her stomach full, she slowly falls asleep. Olga gently takes the breast from her—she doesn't even stir—, but before she could button herself up, the General is already there, lifting the child from her arms, restless to have his daughter close to his heart once again. Olga doesn't even try to protest, just adjusts her clothing as she watches the most feared man in Ravka murmur sweet little things to the sleeping babe in a language she does not understand.

"She'll need to be burped," she tells him after a few heartbeats, when it becomes evident that, her job momentarily done, he has all but forgotten about her presence.

The General stills and looks at her, blinking in confusion. "She needs… what?"

Olga almost lets out a chuckle, the man's evident, complete devotion to the babe, coupled with his clearly utter lack of knowledge about childcare endearing him to her.

"Burped. Babies swallow air as they nurse, it makes their tummy hurt. Makes them fussy. A little burp helps them to settle," she explains, and when it becomes evident that the General has no intentions of relinquishing the babe, she stands to show him. First, when she sees nothing in the room that is not silk or velvet or some similarly luxurious fabric, she unties her simple cotton apron (glad for the fact that she had no time to take it off when the Oprichniki came, and that it's relatively clean), carefully folds it, and places it on his shoulder. "Babies are messy, and it's easier to wash," she explains, seeing his confused expression, eyeing the exquisite brocade of his kefta. It would be a sin to ruin it. "Now hold her just so…" she continues, helping him place the infant against his chest, so that her head rests on his shoulder, while being infinitely glad that it's just the three of them in the room—she is not sure his men would appreciate her touching the General.

Three little pats on her back, barely more forceful than the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, and the babe is already spitting up milk, barely roused, and the General beams .

"Thank you," he tells her, his voice full of emotion. "There's a room prepared for you, please, go and rest. You will be called when your services—which will be, of course, handsomely compensated—are needed again."

Olga inhales sharply—his tone suggests an extended stay at the Little Palace. "What about my family?"

The General's gaze is unwavering. "I'll send for your children in the morning; they can come in with their father, and then stay with you here as long as you are needed. I have no intentions of keeping a family apart." His words ring true. "You may go now."

Olga curtsies again, more put together, but no more graceful this time. "Thank you, moi soverenyi ," she says, then walks to the door. She stops, however, at the threshold, and looks back. "Skin contact."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Skin contact is good for the babes," she explains. "Helps them bond. It's best with the mother, but," she allows herself a playful smirk, "the father will do, too, in a pinch."

When she is called back to the room some three hours later, she finds the Black General sans his kefta and tunic, his red undershirt unbuttoned, and the babe tucked securely under the fabric.


A/N: Nursing corsests did exist during Victorian times (note: I mostly consider 1880ish fashion to be the main costume inspiration of the show), and they came with little "flaps" that could be unbuttoned to free the breast during nursing. (This was my obligatory geeking out over fashion history.)